Bird Watching. Edmund Selous
of, one of them again runs into a hollow—this time a very shallow one—and begins to dance, but in a manner slightly different. He now hardly rises from the ground, over which he seems more to spin in a strange sort of way than to fly—to buzz, as it were—in a confined area, and with a tendency to go round and round.[9] Having done this a little, he runs quickly from the hollow, plucks a few little bits of grass, returns with them into it, drops them there, comes out again, hops about as before, flies up into the air, descends, and again dances about.
[9] Very like the action of the nightjar when disturbed with the young chicks.
"At about four the female reappears, flying from the warren towards the same willow-tree where she had before sat. She perches in it again, and after remaining but a short time, flies down, and once more becomes invisible. Shortly afterwards one of the male birds flies to a little distance, but whether towards her or not I cannot say. He then rises into the air and descends with a twittering song, upon which the other one, who has remained where he was, does so too. The two are now a good way apart, but the distance is soon diminished till they are again quite near, when one of them flies away, then turns and flies back again and settles not quite so near. As he does so, the other one flies in an opposite direction, and at the end of his flight rises into the air with the twitter-song and descends, when the other immediately does the same, just as before. Then again they hop, now this way, now that way, but always diminishing the distance, till at length not more than some three or four feet separates them. But it must not be supposed (and this applies throughout) that the birds seem to have any sinister intention, or even any impertinent curiosity, in regard to each other. They do not advance openly to the attack, but get to close quarters in a very odd sort of way. Seeming for the most part to be unconscious of each other's presence, hopping constantly away from and approaching one another but obliquely, they in reality dog each other's steps and keep a constant eye on each other's movements. When at length there is but this short space between them, they stand for a moment looking at each other, yet without any very warlike demonstration. Then, all at once, one darts upon the other—so swiftly that I cannot be sure whether he flies, hops, or does both—and there is now a fierce and prolonged fight. For a moment or two they are in the air (though not at any height), then struggling on the ground, when one, getting uppermost, holds the other down. At last they separate, and for a few seconds stand close together as though recovering breath. Then, as by mutual consent, they retire from each other to a short distance and hop about again in the same manner as before. One of them then again flies singing into the air, and on coming down dances, but to this the other does not respond, and now all goes on in the usual way, the birds getting once or twice again quite close, but separating without fighting. At half-past four there is another twittering flight into the air, and a dance on descent, which is emulated in a few minutes by the rival bird. Shortly afterwards one flies a considerable way off, but is followed almost at once by the other, and the same thing goes on. Then there is another flight and song with, this time, no dance on descent, but, as though to make up for this omission, on the next occasion, which is some few minutes afterwards, there are two distinct transports on alighting, separated by a short interval. On this occasion the bird did not sing either in ascending or descending.
"Here some other birds claimed my attention, and I was away for a quarter of an hour. On returning, at a quarter to five, I found the two wheatears still together, and precisely the same thing going on. Shortly after five they again fought, but this time entirely in the air. They mounted, fighting, to a considerable height, descended, still doing so, and separated in alighting. Afterwards both of them sang whilst on the ground, and then one mounted up, still singing, and danced when he came down. At half-past five I could only see one of the birds, and this one I noticed to run several times in and out of one of those sandy depressions I have spoken of, and which seem to play such a part in these curious performances. A little later both of them seem gone, but now, at a quarter to six, as I am about to follow their example, I again see them, in company with the hen. She shortly runs a little away from them, the two males remaining together, but making no further demonstration. In a little, one of them flies to her, and these two are now in each other's company, singing, flying, and twittering, for some ten minutes. It would seem as though she had made her choice, and that this was submitted to by the rejected bird, but just before leaving at six o'clock all three are again together."
It is to be observed here that these two birds, though they were in active and excited rivalry for the greater part of an afternoon, and though they made many feints and, as it were, endeavours to fight, yet only really fought twice, seeming, indeed, to have a considerable respect for each other's prowess, and "letting I dare not wait upon I will" during most of the time. Perhaps they were brave, but the idea given me by the whole thing was that of two cowards trying to work themselves up into a sufficient degree of fury to overcome, for a moment or two, their natural timidity. "Willing to wound, but yet afraid to strike," seemed to me to describe their mental attitude.
Much has been said as to the pugnacity of birds, but I think that a large amount of timidity often mingles with this pugnacity, even in the most pugnacious kinds. I have seen, for instance, two pheasants sit, first, face to face, pecking timidly at, or rather towards, each other, and then, on rising, make various little half-hearted feints and runs, one at another, as though trying to fight and not being able to, and this for quite a long time. At last one of them ran to some distance away, and then, turning, made a most tremendous, fiery rush down upon the other one, like a knight in the tilt-yard. Nothing could have looked bolder, more spirited, more full of fire and fury, but—just like these wheatears—at the very moment that he should have hurled himself upon his foe he swerved timidly aside, and all his brave carriage was gone in a moment. And what struck me (and, indeed, as humorous) was that this other bird—the one thus charged down upon—who had been just as timid, and had seemed to find fighting equally difficult, did not retreat, as one might have expected, before this great show, but sat quietly, as knowing it to be "indeed but show," and that there was nothing really to fear. In fact, it was like the drawing of swords between Nym and Pistol in Henry V., each being afraid to use his, and knowing the other to be so too. Black-cocks, again, are often very ready to avoid a conflict, and dance much more fiercely than they fight. A bird, indeed, which is a very demon in the "spiel" or "lek-platz" may, as I have seen, become meek and retreat from it upon the entry of another, which other is then, of course, ipso facto, the boldest bird in existence. Blackbirds are considered to be quarrelsome,[10] and I know that even the hens—or, perhaps, they especially—will sometimes fight in the most vindictive manner. But, as with these wheatears, I have seen in the case of rival cock blackbirds a great deal of chariness of real fighting mingle with much ostentation of being ready to fight.
[10] Whereas the thrush (it is usually added) is peaceable. But this is one of those passed-on things with which natural history is burdened. From my own experience, I know it to be otherwise. I have watched thrushes fighting furiously, not only with one another but with the blackbird also.
I am not, of course, disputing the pugnacity of birds during the breeding season and often at other times. That is quite beyond doubt, and proofs or instances of it are altogether superfluous. But the pugnacity is all the greater if, in order for it to assert itself, a greater or less degree of timidity, varying, of course, in different species and individuals, must first be overcome. Assuming that this is sometimes the case (and I know not how else such instances as I have given are to be explained), is it so unlikely that rival birds, wishing to fight yet half afraid to, and being thus in a state of great nervous tension, should fall into certain violent or frenzied movements, into little paroxysms of fury, as when a man is popularly said to "dance with rage"? Anything that excites highly tends to exalt the courage and conquer fear, as we know with our own martial music, to say nothing of the "pyrrhic" and other dances. It seems possible, therefore, that such violent movements as are here imagined might have this effect, and thus, though excited originally by rage—or some high state of emotion—only, might be persisted in and increased through experience of their efficacy. But if this does ever happen,